What Song Did I Write?
The dilemma didn't last long.
At first, I'd thought about it. For Black Label's sure victory and resounding success, I should write a song with a proven track record.
But if I already knew what would hit big, did I really need to compose it from scratch? Couldn't I just copy-paste a known banger?
I knew plenty of hits. Tons of them.
But I didn't touch Red Dice's songs.
I knew they were good. Good enough to break out beyond Korea. They amplified Red Dice and showed just how far G&X Entertainment could climb.
It'd probably work great if I used one...
I didn't doubt Black Label could pull it off.
I just hated the idea of getting splashed with shit water. Like overwriting bad memories with new ones that'd sour my mood.
So I wrote a new song.
Since Black Label's story was starting fresh, I wanted something refreshing over grandiose. But overflowing with power.
Not dragged along by the beat—ideally, the members should lead it.
I didn't unify the song's vibe into one mold. I arranged it repetitively so listeners wouldn't confuse the genre.
I didn't mix parts willy-nilly. Just loosened the tension where needed and dropped the right twists.
Over that clean white melody canvas, I hoped the members' stories would shine through.
That was the limit of what I could do.
I could pave the road for Black Label to charge ahead, but I couldn't dictate their direction.
When they gained courage from their personal tales and pushed forward boldly, the instrumentation raced ahead.
For crises that screamed hardship and adversity, I used strings to convey raw pain.
Every heart-stirring epic of hot emotion ended with a cathartic resolution. The melancholic piano layers, added for depth, surged forward with power.
Black Label rising above trials, embracing hope, taking one more step toward a vibrant future.
That was our 3:26.
The finale.
Not just the end of the Supreme Beat Contest finals stage, but of Black Label's—and my—story.
Fireworks burst with confetti raining down.
The Black Label members clasped hands and bowed to the crowd.
Some spectators leaped up in standing ovations. Tears streamed down faces.
Were they true fans who'd supported Black Label since before Cheonbihoe, overwhelmed by performing for such a devoted audience?
Or just moved to tears by the song itself?
No way to know. No need to.
That was their personal business.
I just wanted as many people as possible to hear my song.
That was enough.
He grabbed his phone.
TV license fees aside, he wasn't subscribed to any streaming services, but texts cost 100 won each.
"Pfft, a measly 100 won."
He paused the webnovel he'd been reading—using promo cash anyway—and decided to send a text.
He wanted to thank them for making such a great show, even if just like this.
Dong-pal glanced at his mom, who was watching TV with him.
"Mom, which group was your favorite?"
She just chewed on an apple slice silently.
Ah, seriously. Apples at night are bad for you. She always did this.
"Hmm."
She didn't say who stood out. Just followed the live broadcast wordlessly.
Now that Black Label's final stage wrapped, the judges focused intently on scoring.
He flashed a beverage brand logo—probably a mid-show sponsor—while urging text votes.
That warrior bit was getting old...
But it wasn't wrong.
Dong-pal opened his messaging app and punched in the number.
Gulp.
His pick: Black Label. No question.
But he didn't enter it.
This was about pride as a homma.
Being a homma wasn't just snapping good pics and editing them sharp.
Sure, if you were dipping a toe in, that bare-minimum eye might cut it. But it wouldn't pay.
For Dong-pal, to make a name as a top homma and eat well long-term, lightning-fast shutter finger was baseline, killer edits a given.
The real key: eye for talent.
In this debut-flooded idol market, spotting who'll bloom or flop.
Aces in smash-hit rookie groups? Even kids hoarding photocards knew that.
But unearthing hidden gems in flops? That was tier-1 homma cred.
So Dong-pal steeled himself. A test of his eye.
Even now.
Black Label? Solid. The only ones consistently trending double-digits in a show that occasionally hit those ratings.
But was Black Label the endgame?
Was he too fixated to spot others?
This was the Supreme Beat Contest—not a visuals contest.
Songs that fit the name mattered as much as looks. Fanbases could flip, so votes followed the music.
Most memorable finals stage?
Second up: Kickkick Band.
Despite early slot, they were first for worst.
Not the Kickkick Band Dong-pal knew.
They ditched their crisp sound advantage.
Went ballad—like calling them Tokkick Band for how they forgot their punchy rock-hip-hop signature.
That unique sound was theirs alone, so the letdown was massive.
"New direction? Fine."
If they hated being boxed in one genre, at least test the waters first—feel if it's cold or hot.
Wrong vibe aside, pitch issues were glaring.
Kickkick Band: out.
"Whoops, almost forgot."
And Kim Won-sam. Obvious.
Just peak Kim Won-sam. As tensionless as their third-slot order.
Tournament finals had two real foes, like this stage: Jang Ha-na and Black Label.
Finals between those two.
The real shock? Jang Ha-na.
Not hyperbole to say she stole Kickkick Band's desired praise.
No songwriting folkie with acoustic guitar, sitting pretty.
On stage, she transformed—unrecognizable as the Jang Ha-na we knew.
Black Label prepped a bright idol-pop vibe. Looked like mimicry at first.
Bias.
Forgot how genius their trot against Rockwon felt.
Jang Ha-na just gave her all against a powerhouse.
Yeah. Bashing blindly was hypocrisy.
And the bias vanished quick.
"Damn, she's good."
Was Jang Ha-na a former idol trainee? Her dance was pro-level natural.
Couldn't fake that with grind—live singing too.
Even Dong-pal's mom set down her fruit in awe.
"Who's that? She's killing it. Could win."
But this industry's producer playground.
Cameras knew, cutting to DigDag with Jang Ha-na.
Didn't last.
They switched to the actor on fire right now.
"Oh my, what? Isn't that Cha Se-hee?"
There—mom's hyped first.
-Woooaaah!
Cheers erupted.
The screen on Jang Ha-na shifted to hype the mood.
Cha Se-hee waved both hands, beaming—but inside, different story.
We call it acting.
Boring.
Up till now.
Finals or not, it felt like standard music show filler.
First stage passable, but second and third? Worse than average YouTube covers. Basics trashed.
During the break, Cha Se-hee asked her manager beside her.
"Oppa, gotta stay till end?"
"Yeah. Our kid's last, so... no choice."
"Why last? Annoying."
Songs max 3:30. She signaled to bolt post-song.
Heard it was an idol group. G&X had plenty.
New faces, rookies probably. Expected generic idol fare.
No—music even G&X idols couldn't touch easy.